Saxophones, please
by cinderadler
Summary: Gallavich AU. Mickey is a lounge singer at a jazz bar. He was the king of watching couples dance and standing alone when his turn came. He was Cupid, if Cupid wore knuckledusters and carried a gun. Three little words drive him mad every night, but it's just two that really made him lose his mind tonight. "Ian Gallagher."


The lights were hot and were beginning to hurt his eyes. He cast a bored glance out to the fairly empty room to look away from the lights. A flash of orange caught his eye and he heard something besides the recorded saxophone track and the dull keyboard at the back. He stopped singing.

"Fuck that." Mickey was rough, there's no denying that, but he couldn't help it.

"Get off the stage!"

"What?" His voice was uncharacteristically quiet. He hadn't quite caught what was being said. Mickey saw the bouncers pull the shouting redhead out through the fire exit before he dropped his mic. He paced off the stage down to the so-called dressing room, locking the door behind himself once he'd punched it open. His breathing was heavy and uneven as he tried to calm down, taking back a mouthful of flat beer. Mickey ran his hand through his greasy streaks of black hair, dragging his fingers down to his neck in irritation. "No, fuck that."

He stormed out of the back of the club, the slow jazz music humming quietly behind the slam of doors. Where the fuck was that carrot top?

"Hey! Wait up a second-" Mickey shouted as he slammed the stage door behind him. "Is that all I get? You fuck up my routine and not so much as a fucking sorry? _Piece of shit_."

"Yeah. I did everyone a favour!" The redhead shouted back as he walked away.

"Excuse me?" Mickey's voice conveyed his disbelief. "What the fuck did you just say to me?" He approached the slimmer young man angrily. The threat of his question caused the redhead to stop moving.

"I said: I did them a favour." He spoke slowly this time, enunciating his words clearly, showing his accent. Mickey grabbed the over-confident prick by the throat and pushed him into the brick wall of the club. The other man didn't resist. It was almost like he was waiting for it.

"You talk like that to me again, and I'll kill you." Mickey whispered, tightening his grip for a moment before letting him go.

The other guy didn't stumble away panting like Mickey had hoped, however; he just stood where Mickey had left him, leaning up against the brickwork. There was a second of silence as the black haired thug walked away.

"You don't remember me, do you?" The skinny, ginger streak of piss called after him.

"Are you looking to lose some teeth? Do you wanna' spend the night picking up bits of your fucking face, is that it?" Mickey retorted. He didn't want to talk to this punk anymore. "Don't try me, man. I've got a job, alright; don't like it then fuck off someplace else."

"Come on, Mick! It's me: Ian-"

"I don't know a fucking Ian, alright." Mickey interrupted. "Now, fuck off before I hurt you."

"Ian!" He emphasised.

"What-are you a faggot or something?" He was exasperated but couldn't help but reply. He hated losing arguments.

"Why, are you?" There was something charming about the ginger, despite his cockiness. He waited for a second before pushing himself away from the wall. "You _seduced_ me, Mick. You seriously don't remember that? You used to sing to me, all the time, you'd take me into the broom closet and sing to me. And it was too small in there but you'd do it anyway." The ginger was out of breath. "You'd have to be quiet in there, and that's not like you. You're a loudmouth." Mickey turned around and started to walk back to him. His fists clenched automatically but he tried to open his palms.

"You fuckin-excuse me?" His voice pitched.

"You seriously don't recognise me?" The redhead lost his smirk. "Come on, Mick! You must remember me!" Ian put his hands out in front of him to keep Mickey at a distance as he watched his expression change. "You used to sing to me all the time. You'd punch me then kiss it better."

"One more word and I cut the tongue outta' your head." Mickey cut him off. He was becoming irate.

"Ian Gallagher." Ian uttered, trying to look Mickey in the eye to see if he reacted. Mickey stopped moving for a second, suddenly recognising the way a few years had changed Ian's face. The Gallagher kid, not the college drop-out, the girl or the youngest. Ian Gallagher.

"_Ian Gallagher!" He pulled out the 'r' of Gallagher. His name was almost sung as it echoed down the corridor. Mickey's fist collided with several locker doors, turning it into more of a rallying cry than a threat. "Ian Gallagher!" The redhead emerged from the bathroom door, peering around the corner of a block of lockers. He made a break for it and ran to his left, and straight into Mickey Milkovich. _

"_H-hey, Mickey." He had winded himself by running into Mickey._

"_Gallagher." Mickey grabbed Ian's t-shirt collar and pulled him quickly into the nearest closet._

"_What do you want, Mick?"_

"_Well, I remembered someone telling me that today was your birthday. Lip is fucking Mandy again, by the way, but you didn't get your birthday punches." He took Ian by the arm and rested his clenched fist against his skin. Ian smiled in a small panic, trying to appease the notorious thug. He closed his eyes to brace himself. "Eighteen's a lot of bruises."_

_Mickey pressed his knuckles into Ian's upper arm momentarily, before placing a brief and scruffy kiss where his hand just was. Ian opened his eyes tentatively. He was just as confused by the matter as Mickey was, apparently, because Mickey wouldn't look him straight in the eye._

"_Happy birthday, Ian Gallagher."_

"Ian Gallagher, yeah?" Mickey asked the man who'd probably lost him his pay for tonight, stepping back from him to get a good look at him.

"Yeah." There was a blunt optimism in Ian's smile.

"Fuck you." Mickey turned around and walked back to the stage door, letting the loudening jazz music guide him to a safe place. There was a mirror above the sink in the bathroom, he would punch it when he got inside.


End file.
